Grey stones recall the passing rain and wind.
They rest reclined on mortar, brittle bound
To brethren burked, unable to rescind
The wit and wisdom sealed them to this ground.
Through quietude, the silence of the nights;
The warmth of sunlight, dappled on their flanks;
And press of winter’s snow and cold that bites;
Long silent stones find neither praise nor thanks.
But walls are built by man, though strong and just,
And all things age as seasons shuffle by.
Time leeches life and mortar turns to dust;
The stones themselves grow weathered, worn, and die.
For all things mortal temporary be,
Except for love, which lives eternally.
I am, perhaps, feeling my mortality this fine sunny day and wondering about the durability of what I may leave behind when I depart.
Tuesday, May 11, 2021
A wizened stump comprised mainly of bark.
Bright sunlight made a halo of his hair,
His eyes like jewels, twinkling in the dark,
Under the cliff his brow hung o'er his face.
It seemed impossible that he had shaved,
A face so seamed and craggy e'vry place,
One needed magic just to get it laved.
A rumble stirred within his ancient breast.
His tree-limb arm sprung forth and grabbed my hand.
The gnarly tree unfolded from its nest,
But didn't need my aid to help him stand.
He laughed, then whispered (as close as seemly),
"I'm so happy that you came to see me!"
The important thing is to be there.
Posted by Mick at 10:43 AM